Quesadillas BE GONE.

Oh mercy, mercy, mercy. Where to even begin this post? I suppose we should start with about 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, when Jane texted me to tell me Alex had thrown up. Ugh.

By the time I got there, he'd thrown up 2 more times. Then twice on the way home. Joe got home from work  around 6 p.m. and I am not exaggerating in the least when I tell you that I honest to cheese lost count at 20--the number of times he'd thrown up SINCE WE GOT HOME.

We called the pediatrician, and to no one's surprise they sent us right off to the ER at the risk of severe dehydration. Fast forward 5 hours and with a little help from some Zofran, popsicles and pedialite, we were on our way home. The next day, his other end started acting up so he stayed in Pull-Ups for a few days because his "toots had some poops."

 See also: why is he so big?!

And then, in the middle of the night on Wednesday, guess what came knocking on MY door? Yeap. Listen, I won't go into the gory, graphic details in the here and now, but suffice it to say I spent many, many hours seated ON the toilet while simultaneously hurling my brains out into a trash can, sweating profusely and shaking like a patient in detox. Never in all my life have I been that sick. It. Was. Terrible.

And then, as only the VW's luck would have it, Joey was next! He didn't get it quite as badly as me, but I did hear him wish death upon himself a few times from outside the bathroom door.

So what's with the subject of this post, you ask? Well, we watch our fair share of Doc McStuffins and if you aren't aware of this little cartoon gem, she's a "doctor" to her stuffed animals and makes their ouchies go away with her magical toddler doctoring. Every diagnosis is a "Case of the _____," so when Alex morphed from vomit to diarrhea, he self-diagnosed himself with the Quesadillas.

At least we had something to laugh about over the course of the last few days, right?

I'm happy to say we're all on the mend and looking forward to sunny, spring days ahead!

The peer pressure of Greek yogurt.

I genuinely consider myself to be a trendy person. I like to at least know what the cool kids are up to, even if I don't actually participate in the reindeer games. (See also: Uggs, leggings & ombre hair.)

And this new cultural craze around Greek yogurt is something even I cannot ignore. So says advertising and the Internets (and we all know if the Internets say so that it MUST be true!): It's healthy! It's full of calcium! It's exotic & creamy and LOOK! John Stamos even says so!

And, seriously. If John Stamos says I should do it, I'm going to listen. Simple as that.

Let's be clear: I love, love, love the Ben & Jerry's version of Greek Yogurt. So why wouldn't I like the original gangster versions from the likes of Chobani, Fage, Oikos and other ridiculous brand names that no one in their right mind can actually pronounce? 

The quick answer? BECAUSE IT IS AWFUL.

People, I tried. I honestly did. I wanted so badly to fit in with the cool kids and have a trendy and delightful snack of Greek yogurt around 11 am, pulled from a thirty-one monogrammed lunch bag just before I performed a brisk walk around campus in my Lulu Lemon spandex and then sped off in a white Lexus SUV. But here's the thing: I don't have a thirty-one lunch bag; Greek yogurt is awful; spandex is a privilege, not a right; and damnit, I drive American and white cars are awful.

Ask the nice men and women at Kroger: I've purchased every brand, every flavor. It blows. It tastes like sour cream because it IS sour cream. With fruit. And even John Stamos can't trick me of that. Sour cream belongs on nachos, baked potatoes, tacos, chili and other savory, non-breakfast item. 

I caved to the peer pressure and look how it turned out for me. Probably $30 wasted on pretend, fruit sour cream and roughly 20 activations of my gag reflex. John Stamos? You've lied to me. I feel so very, very betrayed. It's a good thing you still have that hair and those dimples, otherwise we'd be finished. FINISHED, I tell you.

Now, back to watching 'Full House' reruns and dreaming of the good ol' days...

The things we do for vanity.

So you recall my earlier post about laser hair removal? And how I was all, "Oh, it's nothing! Totally easy! Pain free! I could do it while eating grapes and being fanned by John Stamos!" Yeah. I take it all back.

Stop reading now if you don't want to know about body hair. Specifically, mine. I warned you.

I recently decided to go all Chelsea Handler on my body and basically remove it all. You've already read about my first bikini appointment, and I started the underarm area the other day. Since my appointment this time was during my lunch hour, I couldn't appropriately self-medicate myself as I did in my first.

HOLY HELL IT HURT LIKE A MOTHERTRUCKER.

I've experienced the joy of a bikini wax no less than 40 times in my life (about 4 times a year since I was 18). I've also had a baby sliced from my uterus, and prior to that lived through nearly 24 hours of labor. You would think that both of these fine examples, plus the countless times I've done stupid things like running into walls or accidentally stabbing myself with Wustof kitchen knives would have prepared me for a silly little laser beam Star Wars-ing its way into my armpit.

I assure you, this is not the case.

I honestly don't know how I will make it through five more sessions on the pits, and four more on the bikini. Well, yes, I do. I won't be scheduling any more during my lunch hour, that's for damn sure. I will also add tequila to my rotation and possibly convince my doctor to prescribe Xanax. Momma needs.


Anyway, I have no idea where I was going with this post, other than to appropriately warn you that it friggin' hurts. And also? Self-medication is the way to go. 

You know, I have one simple request. And that is to have sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads! Now evidently my cycloptic colleague informs me that that cannot be done.

Anyway, I promise I have a point here. As many a true drama queen would say...YOU GUISE! I HAVE BIG NEWS!

I recently took a big step in the world of being a grown up and also doing things I am afraid of and had my very first laser hair removal appointment. You know...down there.

Yes! I did it! And GUESS WHAT? It was fantastical! I saw ponies! And unicorns! And things on sale at MAC! (Ok, that never happens, but still. You see my point.)

I can't believe I didn't do this sooner. It will take 6 treatments to be totally swimsuit ready, but I seriously cannot wait. I will never have to have another godforsaken bikini wax ever in my entire life. Aaaand, I can take all of the people who ever gave me a bikini wax off my hit list and burn their voodoo dolls--it seems so cleansing! Why did I wait until I was freaking twenty freaking nine? Ugh. I will probably also feel the same way about Lasik once I am brave enough to do that. But baby steps, here.

In related news, I should also profess that I cannot be held responsible if you try this treatment and feel vast amounts of pain. I may or may not have consumed one of Joey's Tylenol 3s leftover from his shoulder surgery prior to being zapped with the laser. I plead the fifth.

Potty talk.

Methinks it's that time...

Alex has been repeatedly asking to go "poo poo on the potty." And the one time I actually buckled down and took him seriously, he had already gone in his diaper. (Bad Mom.)

I figure since he's asking, I should take advantage and do something about it. But I'm completely out of my element, here. Bottles, cereal, diapers, baths, swimming, bugs...all of these things I can do. But bodily fluids of the pee and poo form and me aren'tsomuch bffs. (Remind me to tell you the one about Alex vomming down my shirt at a local Chili's.)

I digress. I need to make a potty purchase, and I need some guidance. What works best? Those little mini-seat rings that you put over the real toilet? The little mini-potties? A hole in the backyard?

And also, where do I buy a hazmat suit?

A healthy colon is a happy colon.

This morning for breakfast I had 3 cups of coffee and a Fiber One Bar.

You do the math on what that did to my insides.

Poop pit crew.

So last night before we went to bed, Joe did the uge and checked on Alex to make sure he was all snuggly warm and comfy in his crib. He started to cough as he walked out of the room, indicating a smell of a certain odor.

It appeared that the little man had pooed in his jammies, which, in hindsight, has never actually happened. I thought he was incapable of pooping in his sleep...now I know this to be untrue.

Not wanting to be horrible parents, we stood there dumbfounded/paralyzed for a minute or two debating what to do. Wake him and use the changing table? Attempt to change him in the crib? Spray some Febreze and hope for the best?

Opting for #2, we dropped the crib rail and went to town. In one, smooth motion lasting 30 seconds or less, I unzipped his jammies, Joe lifted his legs and wiped away the goodness as I swooped the new diaper under his tooshie and packaged him back into a bundle of jammie warmth. All while he snoozed and didn't move a muscle.

And somewhere off in the distance, I heard the crowd cheering, "the Van Wormers win the pole position!!!"

This isn't to say this was my proudest parenting moment, but it's close.

Le sigh.

I am super glad this week is OVER. Mostly because it was the most horrific week, ever.

Poor wittle Alex came down with the flu at daycare on Tuesday. Obviously, when children are vomiting on other children, they're notsomuch welcome at places such as daycare...so we got him early and kept him home all week.

Fastforward through me getting it, Joe getting it, and work being the suckiest, ever, and it was all in all a no good, very bad week.

But mad props to the best SIL ever, Jill, for coming to our rescue last night. If Kyle hadn't already married her, I might consider it.

Here's to a healthy February!

I'm Sorry...

...but it's just wrong to be on the phone while using the loo. So to the lady in the handicapped stall just now (nap culprit? perhaps.), I would like to let you know that you are gross. Really, really gross.

And whoever you were talking to probably didn't appreciate the flush mid-sentence. Or the very annoying squeaksqueaksqueak of the tee pee as it unravels from the roll. Or the zip of your pants. Or the unavoidable conversation echo caused by the cinder block walls. And god forbid you let out a fart when you're chattin' it up about tonight's euchre tourney! Riveting information, truly.

It's kinda like texting and driving. No call is so important that it can't wait 4 minutes for you to whiz, flush and properly wash and dry your phalanges.

And this? Well, this right here is all sorts of wrong.

Lights Out.

The lights in the restrooms @ work are on timed motion detectors. That is, they automatically turn off after a period of non-movement (5 minutes or more) to conserve energy and save moolah.

When I went to take my afternoon whiz, the lights turned on as I opened the door. Movement! So just imagine my surprise when I heard a sneeze in the handicapped stall. After a sneak peek under the door, I confirmed that someone (wearing very cute red alligator high heels) was sitting in the chair that's parked in the handicapped stall.

Isn't that super weird? I went in a few minutes later to make sure it wasn't a dead body and the red high heels were gone. And don't think I didn't walk the halls casually looking at everyone's feet to find the culprit, because I did. No luck.

I don't know about you, but I usually take my naps/breaks in my car. Or in a conference room. Or anywhere that's NOT a bathroom.

Le gross.

An Open Letter.

Attention ladies: It is now officially sum-sum-summatime.

This means that the seemingly endless condundrum of 'what is work appropriate summer attire?' is officially on everyone's minds. Well, at least mine. In any event, I'm about to impart some serious knowledge on you. File this one away as top 5 general office etiquette - right behind the NO nail clipping rule.

1. Tank tops are acceptable when you are out to dinner with friends. Or at a club. Or out shopping. However, I do NOT want to look at your poorly shaved pits in the boardroom. It's just not cool. Ann Taylor makes cardigans for a reason.

2. I love strappy sandals as much as the next girl, and as cute and fun and impressive as your Old Navy flip flops in every color of the rainbow might be, they do not scream, "Hey, I take my job seriously!" Put on a professional pair of shoes and respect the office, will ya?

3. This actually pairs with Rule #2: just because the weather says you can wear open-toed shoes doesn't mean that you should. Treat yourself to a nice pedicure before you even dare expose those toes. Nobody wants to see your gangly, disgusting and unpolished feet. It's le gross.

4. Throw this one back to my Catholic school roots: if your skirt/dress doesn't pass your fingertips when you hold your hands at your side, you shouldn't be wearing it. This especially applies to all women over 29 during any season.

5. Kudos to you if you're using your lunchtime to walk around outside and get some exercise. However, if your place of work does not have a shower for you to refresh your hot mess of a self, keep it inside so the sweat stays to a minimum. I don't want to smell your nasty funk in our 2 p.m. meeting, mmkay?

Take those to the summer bank and cash them, y'all. Oh, and the no clipping rule knows no season.

In other news, Glee goes Gaga tonight. AND it's the season finale of The Biggest Loser. Thank the lawd for DVR!

Out. Of. Control.

The mysterious office nail clipper has clipped TWICE this week. Yes, I know it's only Tuesday. I literally had to completely evacuate my presence from the 3rd floor to keep from tossing my Starbucks and Kashi Bar into File 13. So uncool, man. So uncool.

Here's the juicy tidbit: he's no longer mysterious. I KNOW WHO HE IS. I have a name, an occupation and I've seen pictures of his kids. Yes, the same man who has the audacity to clip his nails in a public and professional office setting also, at some point, tricked some poor, unknowing female into reproducing with him. For shame!

I'm obviously far too dramatic and oversensitive on this issue, but something has to be done. Do I send him an anonymous interoffice letter detailing why the clipping is horrifically disgusting and unsanitary? Do I sneak into his desk drawer after hours and steal the infamous clippers? I would wear gloves, natch. Or do I just grow the eff up and let the man perform his personal grooming habits in the adjacent cubicle?

Pretty sure I'm gonna do some creative combination of the above menu of options. He needs to be stopped.

Toot. Toot.

I made this for dinner last night and it was SCRUMPTIOUS. The word "easy" was in the working title of the recipe, so I really couldn't resist. I used about a 2 lb. roast, though, because 4 could feed us for a week. I also added 'shrooms, because we love us some 'shrooms in the VW house. Not like THAT, sillies!

There's just something about walking in the front door (after a heinous day at work) to the smell of a delicious dinner that's ready to eat. If Yankee could bottle that scent up for a candle they'd make bazillions!

In unrelated news, the disgusting and mysterious at-work nail clipper is back with a vengeance. And since I sit mostly near dudes, odds are good that it's a grown man clip, clip, clipping his scurvy nails in my very presence. Seriously. Who does that? Save it for the privacy of your own home, man!

In other unrelated news, I did some more research and it seems that the minimum requirement for Locks of Love is 10 inches, not 8 as I mentioned in this post. Would it be weird to start taking my prenatal vitamins again to help it grow faster?

Leaving On A Jet Plane.

2 very important things before I depart:

1) Tried the NoseFrida last night. HOLY CRAP IT IS AWESOME. Seriously, it works like a friggin' dream. As previously mentioned, Alex is a booger machine and he always fought and struggled with the bulb sucker...even got a little whimpery when he saw it coming. But this thing is quite possibly more brilliant than sliced bread. I do not tell a lie. When you get yours, be sure to order the extra filters, too, since you have to use a new one every time. But at $2.50 for 20, it's so worth it.


2) When I checked in for my flight last night I opted to receive an E-Boarding Pass. Has anyone else done this? It's very cool - you have to enter your wireless carrier, phone brand and model and then they TEXT you your boarding pass. Apparently I just flash my phone screen and license at the security checkpoint and I'm good as gold. Truth be told I will probably print a boarding pass at the terminal just to be safe, but I'm going to give the E-thing a whirl first. I'm so modern! :)

Peace out, girl scouts!

An Act of Pure Desperation.

This one's about boogers, just so you're prepared.

I've been using the nose sucker (does it have a real name? IDK...it's this thing) that we got from the hospital for Alex. Sadly, it experienced its last suck a few nights ago due to a tear in the rubber.

So I bought a replacement from Safety First. Pardon the pun, but this one SUCKS. Hardcore. So I bought another one. And it sucks even MORE. I'm convinced that hospitals have the monopoly on all the good nose suckers.

I must, must, must, must get another hospital one. I will give money. I will give Starbucks. I will even give my dignity. Who can get me one? Nurses? People having babies at hospitals that can ask for an extra?

Seriously...I will stop at nothing to get my hands on it. I'm the Mom to the biggest booger producer on the planet and need that thing to survive.

Alex would really like to breathe. Can you help?

Update: My inbox has been absolutely flooded with suggestions to look into the Nosefrida. I will admit, the thought of actually sucking the boogers out of Alex's nose literally with my own mouth makes me want to gag, but it's been thoroughly tested and proven to be safe and germ-free. Plus, the reviews are absolutely out of this world, so I basically must have one ASAP. I ordered mine online at Target...check it out!

Paper Bag, Stat.

Those that know me well are aware of my extreme dislike of nail cutting in unacceptable places a.k.a anywhere that is not inside a trashcan or outside in the great outdoors.

My skin literally crawls when I see or hear others clip, clip, clipping their fingernails--or God forbid, toenails--in random public places. My Mom just skated by with her life when I caught her clipping her toenails (vomit) in MY BED once upon a time.

So, it is with extreme displeasure that I tell you that I just heard the unmistakable *clip*clip*clip* around the corner from my desk. Seriously people, at WORK? Have you no dignity?

I'm about to hurl my breakfast all over the third floor.

Hypothetically Speaking...

If you were in a high-level meeting with your new boss in the middle of a very in-depth conversation and she whipped out her lotion bottle and started to lube up her legs without so much as skipping a beat what would you do?

Would you just look at her, blankly, as if to say, "Really? You're doing that now? Here?" And would you feel sort of like you were on the set of some sick office porno?

Cause that's what I did would do in this situation.

Ew.

So I forgot how much I totally hate sweat. Or simply the act of sweating. Or just even the thought of it. Ew.

On the flip side of this rainbow, I just got off the treadmill. Thirty minutes of pure, unadulterated awfulness, thankyouverylittle. Also, a big shout out to Stacey and Clinton from TLC's 'What Not To Wear' for keeping me delightfully entertained for the duration. I find her to be incredibly annoying; yet Clinton so very, very charming.

In related news, this act of self-sweat-mutilation has been brought to you by letters 'S' and 'C,' as in Sagebrush Cantina - the greatest Mexican restaurant on the face of the earth and also where Joe and I will be dining with the deliciously pregnant Keliann this evening.

Get my motivation?